On A Wing And A Prayer: Changing Times
by Vi Co
Summary: Third in the series. April 27, 1941.
1. Muncie, Indiana

_April 27,1941 – Muncie, Indiana_

Muted voices filled the parish hall as the assembled wedding guests waited impatiently for the grand entrance of the newlywed couple. Everyone was there waiting, even the so-often-missing Brian. Carter rubbed his hands together eagerly as he looked out across the knots of gossiping wedding guests. If everything went off as planned, it truly would be a memorable night, in more than just one way.

But if they were to stick to the rigid timeline that Chris had planned, they would have to get started soon. Pushing back the sleeve of his suit jacket to look at his watch, Carter found only a bare wrist. His eyes widened. How was he supposed to be able to stick to a timeline if he couldn't tell what time it was? But where was he supposed to get a watch from without arousing suspicions?

He started searching the hall anxiously for his younger brother. They would have to either find a watch or alter the plans. And the plans couldn't easily be altered. They wouldn't have enough time to fully inform Chris of the changes; Chris still had to act the part of the innocent bridegroom. But Brian was, as usual, nowhere to be found.

Carter started to wander to the other side of the building, hoping that Brian would turn up soon. They had to figure out something, and fast, or everything would be ruined.

As Carter searched frantically for Brian, Mary Jane edged her way through a crowd of people to Carter's side. "You guys have something up, don't you?" she asked suddenly.

Carter flinched, he hadn't been expecting her to suddenly show up beside him. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, trying to squash the grin that was threatening to break out on his face.

"I know that look only too well, Andrew," she retorted, her blue eyes glued to his face.

"What look?" he questioned, slipping his hands casually into his pockets. His fingers encountered something unexpected, a smooth glass face and a leather strap.

"That look!" she declared, watching as the grin on his face couldn't be contained anymore. "I know you're up to something."

Carter shrugged happily. There was something up, especially now that he had found his watch, and there was no use denying it. "Why would we be up to something?" he inquired cryptically.

"Because you're grinning like an idiot," she pointed out. "And although weddings are happy occasions, I don't see anyone else quite as happy as you are."

Carter pulled the watch out of his pocket. "I'm just happy that I found Chris's watch," he explained, thinking on his feet. "He was worried because he lost it this morning. I had to lend him mine," he continued showing Mary Jane his own bare wrist.

She nodded, looking from the watch dangling from Carter's hand to his wrist. "Well, I'm glad that you found it," she told him slowly, not quite convinced of his story. "But don't you and Brian do anything to wreck Chris's big day."

"We wouldn't dream of it," Carter assured her, starting to move off toward the bathroom. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see if I can find Chris to return his watch."

As he walked away from Mary Jane, Carter looked down at his watch. The second hand was creeping closer to the twelve; thankfully, despite the delay, he was still running on time. And he was more relieved to see Brian disappearing unnoticed into the bathroom.

Carter slipped through the gaps in the crowd toward the bathroom, taking detours around groups of people he knew would want him to stop and chat. He had already spent all of his extra time first searching for Brian and then talking with Mary Jane.

Chris was already waiting in the bathroom when Carter walked in; he must have come through the window because there was no way he could have made it through the hall unnoticed.

As the three brothers huddled together in the tiny bathroom, Carter's excitement bubbled over. "Oh, boy," he said gleefully, "this is going to be great. Better than great!"

"Mom's going to kill us," Brian broke in, not the least bit concerned.

Chris's ear-to-ear grin grew even wider, if that was possible. "Never mind Mom! She's the least of our problems. Anne's the one that we're going to have to worry about." But he too was unconcerned about the potential wrath of his new wife. "Did the two of you manage to get everything?"

"You betcha," Brian assured Chris. "You've got to take a look at this stuff. It's absolutely incredible." He reached behind the sink to pull out a bulging canvas bag.

"Hey," Chris warned, reaching around Brian to flick the lock on the door, "be more careful with that stuff. We don't want just anyone seeing it. At least not yet."

"Here," Brian offered, holding the bag out to Chris. "We even got some extra stuff, just in case."

"Can't," Chris said, holding his hands free. "I promised Anne that I wouldn't touch any explosives, detonators of any sort, or chemicals today. And that bag certainly contains all four, and probably a few things that Anne didn't think of." He chuckled, adding, "But I didn't say that I wouldn't closely supervise or plan the use of said items."

Carter, glancing again at his newly found watch, started. "We've got to get moving!" he declared. "Chris, you were supposed to be back with Anne twenty-three seconds ago. And Brian and I have to start getting this stuff set up."

Chris leapt up from his position, hastily scrambling through the open window. A moment later, his head reappeared above the windowsill. "This is going to be great. Better than great!"

Carter rubbed his hands together again. This had to be their best idea yet. Who, other than Mary Jane, was going to suspect anything? Chris was the supposed ringleader and lead perpetrator of all of their crazy stunts, no one would think anything would happen with him out of the picture. But little did they know what a big part the others played in everything.

Brian reached into the bag, pulling out his half of their supplies. "This is going to be great," he said, echoing their earlier words. "Better than great. A real big send off."

"Yeah," Carter agreed, "it'll be a really big bang. Something that they'll never forget." But even through his excitement, Carter couldn't help but be a little disappointed. He knew that with Chris married and gone, none of their pranks and jokes could be quite the same. They were all three growing older, and maybe this was the time for them to finally start growing up.


	2. London, England

_April 27, 1941 – London, England_

The air raid sirens began to whine again as yet another wave of bombers approached the city. The Luftwaffe bombers were attempting to bring England, now standing alone in Europe, to her knees. The English were the only things still remaining between Hitler and a completely subjugated continent, if not a defeated world.

Hogan sat alone in the empty pub, listening to the air raid sirens and considering his uselessness once again. As a neutral observer, he could do nothing to defend the island from the invading planes. He could do nothing to help the British prepare for the invasion that everyone feared. All he could do was watch and learn, waiting for the time when America would finally come to the aide of the embattled island. Or at least those were the thoughts of the president.

Aside from the aid he was supplying through the Lend-Lease legislation, Roosevelt was attempting to prepare a country that was still clambouring for peace for what seemed to be an unavoidable war.

Hogan swirled the last of his beer around the bottom of his glass thoughtfully. He would give anything to be in the pilot's seat of one of those fighters, helping to fight against the Germans. But it would have endangered the fragile American neutrality, and that was something that Roosevelt was not yet prepared to do.

Even though Hogan couldn't see the sky through the heavy blackout curtains, he knew that the searchlights would be combing the sky, hoping to latch onto a luckless plane, pinpointing it for the anti-aircraft batteries. There was silence between the end of the air raid sirens and the beginning of the distant thundering of the anti-aircraft guns. Hogan knew that there would be another pause again before the bombs started to rain down on the city.

As he sat alone in the English pub, he felt out of place. He knew that he had no place with the RAF and other allied airmen, struggling to stop the Germans; his country was still at an uneasy peace. But he knew even more strongly he had no place among the civilians, sleeping night after night in the Underground; he was a soldier. So he sat alone, the last dredges of a warm drink his only companion.

As he mused, the door to the pub opened and two young girls walked quickly in, pulling the door closed behind them to stop the light from escaping. Like Hogan, they too were in uniform, the blues of the WAAF. And, also like him, they had not taken refuge in shelters, preferring to face the bombing above ground.

"Evening, sir," one of the girls said, smiling brightly at him. "We're giving Jerry quite the pounding tonight."

"To be sure that we are! And what else would be happenin'?" the second girl added. Her bright Irish accent was a welcome sound to Hogan's ears. His mother, even after more than thirty years in America, still retained traces of her native Irish accent.

The multitude of different uniforms, accents, and languages around London still hadn't ceased to amaze Hogan, even after having spent a few months in the capital city. Five minutes in Piccadilly had been long enough for Hogan to see more uniforms and hear more languages than he ever had before. Ten minutes had been more than long enough to make Hogan realise that he had been woefully ignorant of the true significance of one nation dominating all of the others.

"Hitler sure bit off more than he could chew when he took on you people," Hogan commented, turning from the vacant counter to sit facing the two girls.

Staying assured of victory seemed to be almost as important as actually shooting down the German bombers. It had begun to seem to Hogan that sometimes that assurance of victory was all that the Allies had to cling to.

"You bet that he did!" the first girl agreed. She offered her hand to Hogan. "Flight Officer Elisabeth Robertson."

"And Katie O'Brien, Pilot Officer."

Hogan shook hands cordially with both. "Robert Hogan, a colonel in the US Army Air Corps."

"What brings the like of you here?" Katie asked curiously, reaching up to secure a stray lock of air.

Before Hogan had a chance to answer, a bomb blast shook the ground. They waited for a moment, knowing that there would likely be more blasts following. When there was nothing for a moment, Hogan started to reply, "I'm here as a spe—" That was as far as he got before another bomb landed, exploding close enough to rattle the glasses behind the bar.

"That was bloody close," Katie breathed, looking around nervously.

Before they had a chance to duck under the tables for cover, another explosion rocked the pub. The glass behind the bar shattered from the force of the concussion and the three dove to the floor, covering their heads with their arms, as dust and plaster cascaded down from the ceiling.

More explosions followed close behind, within seconds of one another. Chunks of plaster fell from the ceiling and the supports groaned worryingly from the strain of holding the roof against the onslaught.

Hogan could feel the rough wooden floor beneath his face, the grain pressing into his cheek. He wanted to lift his head to see if the others were hurt, but it was as if there was a great weight pressing down on him. It could have been the light dusting of plaster that rested on him. Or it could have been the sudden pressure from the explosions. Or it could have been his own fear.

He had been in air raids before. He had felt the rumble of distant explosions, but he had never been this close to the bombing before. This was his first experience with the full fury of the Luftwaffe's might. And, thankfully, it was a short one. The next explosions were already moving away from them, even though all three remained pressed down to the floor.

Hogan chanced a glance over, glad to see that he was not the only one still with his head buried underneath the scant protection of his arms. As the bombing moved even further off, the three slowly pushed themselves up. At first they sat up cautiously, testing themselves to make sure that they were uninjured. Then they stood, brushing off the dust and plaster and looking at the destruction.

Only a few minutes ago, the pub had been neatly organized. Now it was in shambles.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Katie said, looking around at the shattered glass and chunks of plaster.

"Everyone alright?" Hogan asked in concern. The plaster in his hair aged him, making him look dozens of years older than he should.

Both girls nodded solemnly as they continued to brush the dirt from their uniforms. They watched as alcohol dripped slowly to the floor from the shattered bottles, forming pools of the precious liquid.

Elisabeth picked her way gingerly to the door, wanting to see how the rest of the street had fared. The building immediately across the street had been made into a shell of itself. Walls had been blown apart and furniture scattered. Flames from a fire in a neighbouring building were snaking their way toward the remaining columns, silhouetting the dark timbers against the orange glow.

"Bloody hell."


	3. somewhere in Germany

_April 27, 1941 – somewhere in Germany_

"Peter?" someone whispered anxiously.

"I'm here," Newkirk answered. "Phillips?"

"Right beside you."

The three airmen huddled close together in the bushes at the edges of the open field. They kept their voices low, even though there was no one around to hear them, at least not yet.

"The others?" one of them asked after a moment.

Newkirk shook his head sadly. "They didn't make it out."

Perhaps twenty metres off from them, the bomber burned, the flames feebly illuminating their hiding place. They had bailed out low, making parachute landings not far from the bomber. Even though they should have been working their way toward the French coast or Spain, they had instead headed toward the bomber, anxious to see if any of their comrades had survived. The three had met there.

"Phillips, do you have any idea where we are?"

Phillips swallowed hard. "Um, by my best guess, we're somewhere in Germany," he said hesitantly.

The navigator had gone down with the plane, and, as first pilot, Phillips was in the best position to know their location. But obviously the evasive manoeuvres had been too much for the young pilot to keep track of. He wanted to apologise for not knowing, but he was the pilot and the only officer on the flight crew. In that way they looked up to him, even though he was one of the youngest. Newkirk was older than he was, but, as the de facto leader, Phillips was the one that they all deferred to.

Lost somewhere in Germany wasn't the best news that they could have hoped for. They knew which direction it was to France, and they had a general bearing toward the coast. But they had no idea how far it was to either.

"Well, we've got to get away from here. This is the first place the Germans are going to start looking for us," Newkirk stated logically, continuing to look around, expecting the Germans to show up at any moment.

"Right," Phillips said, standing. A twig snapped sharply beneath the heel of his boot. Instantly the young pilot dropped to the ground, his eyes darting nervously around the field. Had the situation not been so serious, they would have laughed at his overreaction. But under the circumstances, he hadn't overreacted.

"And for the love of God," he warned, "don't anyone make any noise."

The three began to walk quietly in the vague direction of France. They tried to keep close to the edge of the bushes lining the field. They would provide scant covering in case they had to hide, but it was better than the openness of the field. There was nowhere to hide there.

They had all thought that nothing would ever happen to them. They had never really stopped to consider that they could be shot down. Of course, they knew the odds. Everyone knew the odds. But it always happened to someone else; that's how you got odds. Odds didn't happen to you. But they had just become odds.

Newkirk tried to think back to his training, hoping it would be more productive than pondering the odds. The instructors had tried to prepare them in case they were shot down behind enemy lines, tried to give them a chance. But he couldn't remember any of the hints they had given. All he knew was that the three of them were on the ground, somewhere in Germany, with no food, no water, and no arms. The only good thing seemed to be that none of them were wounded.

After the three had been walking for an hour, they came to a quickly moving stream. It was too wide to jump across, and, although it could be swum, the banks on the other side were too steep for them to scale. Swelled as it was with the spring runoff, it seemed to be an insurmountable obstacle. It was just something else in the long list of things that had gone wrong that night.

"Well, what do you think, mates?" James, leading for the moment, halted abruptly to stand and look at it.

"We can't cross here." Everyone nodded their agreement.

"And we're way too exposed to stop." There was another round of nods.

"Let's follow it for a while. Somewhere it has to get narrow enough for us to cross," Phillips suggested.

"Maybe on the way we'll find a place to hide during the day," Newkirk said hopefully, striking out deeper into the scrub. He turned after a moment, looking to see if the others were following. They were.

No one had any idea of what to do, so any suggestion was better than nothing. The only thing that was driving them was the knowledge that they had to get as far away as possible from the bomber before the sun rose and they would have to find a place to hide.

They were forced to make detours due to the thickening underbrush, but the leader, whoever it was at the time, always made sure to keep the sound of the running water to their right. Sometimes they would lose sight of the stream, but the sound of splashing was always there, reassuring them that they were still heading in the right general direction.

As they hiked, Newkirk attempted to figure out where they might be. He really didn't have a clue, he had had to abandon his seat to go back and find out what had happened to Walt, the navigator.

They had just been exiting a thick cloudbank when they encountered their first flak of the night. Newkirk and Phillips had been too concerned about keeping the plane in the air to fully follow exactly where they were; they still knew the general heading to the target, the navigator was supposed to figure out the rest. But when they had gotten out of the flak and feathered the number three engine, the navigator was unresponsive.

Newkirk had unbuckled himself from his seat and worked his way through the bomber toward the navigator's station, intent on finding out what was going on. Walt had taken a direct hit from the flak. Unwilling to stay back with the body, Newkirk gathered up the maps and began heading back toward his own seat. Before he had the chance to get there, the bomber started rocking again; they had hit another patch of flak.

With one engine already feathered, and the second pilot not at the controls, Phillips had had more trouble controlling the already damaged bomber. Forced to feather another two engines and with the tail gunner reporting flames, they had had to bail out. The maps had been lost during the descent.

Newkirk forced himself to try and think ahead; going backward he couldn't come up with a better fix on their location. But before them the sun was starting to come up, staining the sky in gentle pastels.

"We should find a place to hole up for the day," Newkirk suggested, looking around.

Phillips nodded. "Right," he said. "But we can't do it here. We'll have to keep looking."

Although the three were surrounded by underbrush, it wasn't thick enough or deep enough to hide the three from searchers. And they were still less than a four-hour march from the bomber.

James nodded his agreement. The three stood for a moment, looking around at the sparse coverage and listening to the babbling water to their right. In the light, they could see the river in the distance. Although narrower, the river was still too wide to easily cross. But they would have done it anyway, except the coverage on the other side of the river looked even sparser.

"Listen, mates," James said reluctantly, "I think we've got to split up. We've got to find hiding spots before we've got Jerries crawling all over the place. And there's no place here big enough for the three of us."

The three looked seriously at one another. They didn't want to have to split up, but they were quickly realising that, if they wanted to evade capture, they would have. Hopefully they would be able to reunite the next night, but there were no guarantees.

Phillips was the first to sigh and say, "James's right." Taking charge, Phillips looked down at his watch and then up at a distant tree silhouetted against the rising sun. "We meet at that tree at ten tonight, as soon as it gets dark. But we've got to try to stay ahead of the Germans. If no one else arrives, leave by eleven. Don't wait around."

The others nodded their agreement.

Looking seriously at his friends, Newkirk knew this might be the last time he would see any of them. "Take care, mates," he said, offering them his hand. "I'll see you both soon." They shook his hand, and then the three split up, heading off into the brush.


	4. Stalag 13, Germany

_April 27, 1941– Stalag 13, Germany_

The barbed wire stood out darkly against the grey sky as the morning dawned, cold and grey. The spring chill still hadn't left the air and the tattered uniforms of the prisoners did little to keep them warm. So they stood with their arms wrapped around themselves, stomping their feet in an attempt to generate a little extra body heat. 

"Herr kommandant," a thin German guard stammered, "I beg to report that eleven men are missing." The private checked his count against his clipboard one more time, hoping against hope that the last two checks had been wrong.

"Eleven!" the kommandant exploded, whirling around to face the sergeant standing beside him. "How could you have allowed this to happen?" he demanded. "Eleven men! That's impossible. Count them again."

The fumbling private went through the assembled prisoners again, checking the numbers carefully against the ones on his clipboard. This time, as with the two previous times, it was obvious that the men were missing. "There are eleven men missing, Oberst Stumpff," he reported desperately.

"Find them!" Stumpff ordered. "And I want to know which men are gone."

He turned to furiously stomp away when the sergeant spoke up. "How shall we find them, Herr Obsert?" he asked. He was new to the camp, having been transferred in after the last escape.

"Find them any way you can!" he screamed. "Tear the camp apart if you have to! I don't care. Just find them!" Then, without another word, the stocky German colonel stormed away.

Standing in position among the ranks of prisoners, LeBeau turned slightly to whisper jubilantly to his neighbour. "The filthy Bosche will never find them. By now they should be crossing into France!"

"How can you be so sure?" the man asked in confusion. He was a newcomer to Stalag 13, shot down during the last bombing raid. He had parachuted down almost within the camps confines; he had never even had a chance to try and evade the German guards.

"We have a good system here," LeBeau told him, grinning widely. This man had just finished being vetted by the escape officer, and so he still didn't know about the escape network that they had built up.

Stalag 13 had the highest escape numbers of any camp, most of them home runs. Prisoners escaped so often that they had developed a highly effective network of safe houses. The safe houses were so efficient that a dozen men could be smuggled through to France at a time.

As the guards started to pull out the prisoners' files, LeBeau spoke again to the man beside him. "Give me your identity disks," he said quickly, holding out his hand.

"Why?" the man asked in confusion. He raised his hand to his chest, reaching for his tags. But rather than offering them out to LeBeau, he was holding on to them. He was unwilling to part with them.

"Just do it," LeBeau said, holding his own tags out to him. Sergeant James Irving, according to the tags, hurriedly exchanged identification with LeBeau.

The guards began herding the prisoners into lines in front of the tables that they had set up, sorting them according to nationality. The older guards were the most efficient, they were given the job of corralling the prisoners; the more inexperienced guards were behind the tables, given the simple job of comparing pictures with prisoners.

As the prisoners waited in their lines, the older prisoners were watching the guards, looking to see which were the greenest. Then, inconspicuously, they worked their way into those lines. It was easier to trick the younger guards; they didn't know enough to recognise the troublemakers.

When LeBeau finally reached the head of the line he had chosen, the guard behind the table spoke in harsh German. "Your identity tags," he demanded. His head stayed down, looking at the files before him. That was the reason that LeBeau had picked this line.

LeBeau fumbled in his sweater for Irving's tags. It looked too suspicious to have them ready for the guards; it made it look like he was co-operating too much. He passed the tags wordlessly to the guard. The guard took the tags, still keeping his head down. "You are RAF," he said brokenly, in English, thrusting the tabs back at LeBeau. "You go there." He pointed to the correct table with one hand, eyes downcast, and the other hand already reaching out for the next person's tags.

As he meandered over to the RAF table, he looked around to see what the other 'old hands' were doing. He knew they would be attempting to cause as much trouble as possible, the only question was how. The answers were as varied as the men themselves; each old hand had a favoured way of confusing the guards.

Corporal Keegan had taken the tags of a man that had escaped from the camp months ago, and the guard was frantically paging through the files, searching for the right picture to match the tags. The confusion was clearly evident in the guard's eyes as he started over at the beginning again. Behind Keegan, two of the others, waiting further back in line, had started a heated argument. Knowing the two of them, it was likely to break out into a full-fledged fistfight at any time. But it was accomplishing the intended purpose; most of the guards were more concerned with breaking up the fight than with watching that prisoners were staying in the barracks once they had been counted.

And that worked well for Sergeant LeClerc. The lanky Frenchman had taken the tags of the escaped prisoners that looked the most like him. He had passed through the line twice already, both times on borrowed tags. This time he was trying to go through as himself. The guards would have the names of only nine missing prisoners, but would continue to count eleven men short.

LeBeau grinned as he sidled up to the RAF table, this time picking a guard who carefully examined the prisoners before taking their tags. The guard eyed him curiously, clearly aware that LeBeau was not wearing an RAF uniform. "Your tags," he ordered.

"Oui, monsieur," LeBeau answered, starting to fumble again for his tags.

"C'est pour l'anglais," the guard told him in broken French. "Le français est cet table." He pointed helpfully off in the direction that LeBeau had just come from.

"Merci, monsieur," LeBeau told him seriously. As he turned away, the grin reappeared on his face. Baiting the Germans was such sport.


	5. Detroit, Michigan

_April 27, 1941 - Detroit, Michigan_  
  
The polished wooden table gleamed like glass in the bright sunlight streaming through the open dining room window. Kinch knelt down, looking at eye level across the glossy top, searching for any smudges that may have escaped his polishing. He found a spot, standing to rub at the offending mark until the table was perfect. Even though Kinch knew that the entire table would soon be covered with a crisp linen tablecloth, hiding all of his hard work from sight, he still wanted everything to be perfect. It was his parent's thirty-fifth anniversary and all of their friends, family, and neighbours had been invited over for the party.

As Kinch finished off in the dining room, he listened as voices drifted in from the kitchen where Susan and his mother were preparing the food. "Watch out, Susan, that's—"

"Oww!" his sister yelled, cutting their mother off. She obviously hadn't waited until the warning had finished, at least if the yelp was any indication. Kinch wasn't surprised. Susan was headstrong; she did whatever she wanted, often regardless of the consequences. And she didn't like listening to other people's warnings. A typical teenager, she always thought that she knew best.

"—hot," their mother finished needlessly.

Kinch smiled at the sound. He didn't mind lending a hand and helping out around the house, but he was glad that he hadn't been asked to help cook. It was necessary and good, but he drew the line at culinary duty. His sister could do that; he would just eat the results. Well, he would eat the results provided, of course, that they weren't too badly charred. He had had bad experiences with his sister's cooking already on several occasions.

Besides, with two women in the house, if he decided to give his sister the benefit of the doubt, why should he have to cook. Sure, his mother had made sure that he knew how to, but why would he want to? He enjoyed eating the culinary delights more than he liked making them.

"Why are we making so much food?" he heard his sister protest. "Everyone always eats before they come anyway." Susan, still Susie when he wanted to annoy her, was no doubt nursing her burn.

"Because the party is at our house and we are the hosts. And it doesn't matter whether people have already eaten or not. Mark my words," their mother said firmly, "we won't have any leftovers." There was a pause and then a soft smack. It was probably a towel making an impact with Susan's rear end. "Now, get back to work. We've got a lot still left to do."

Kinch grinned as he unfolded the tablecloth. He was planning to avoid the kitchen for as long as possible, lest he be roped into helping cook. As he spread the white linen tablecloth over the dark wood, he paused for a moment to consider how spectacular it would look once the crystal and silver platters piled high with food had been arranged on the long table. But he didn't have more than a moment to consider it.

"Ivan," his mother said, interrupting his musing, "if you're quite done in here, we could use your help in the kitchen." She was standing in the doorway watching him, her hands planted firmly on her hips. "You can start carrying the plates of food out here to the table. And mind that you don't drop anything."

"Anything you say, Mom," he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead as he walked past her toward the kitchen.

"If he's finally here to help, then can I go and start getting ready?" Susan asked pointed, gesturing toward Kinch with her wooden spoon.

"Are you watching your sauce?"

"Of course, Mom," Susan said. "Doesn't it look like I'm watching my sauce?" she continued, turning back to the stove. She was just in time to see the pale sauce boiling over the sides of the saucepan.

"Yikes!" she yelped, hurriedly turning down the gas and starting to stir again.

"Good one, Susie," Kinch laughed, slipping his hands carefully under two heavily laden platters.

"How many times do I have to tell you that—" she started.

"Watch where you're going with those, Ivan James!"

"Sorry, Mom," Kinch apologised, skirting more cautiously around the stove. He made his way over to the dining room, putting the plates down on the tablecloth he had just finished laying.

Then he returned to the kitchen, ready for another trip. Susan still wasn't watching her sauce. She had turned and was watching Kinch as he wandered back into the kitchen. She opened her mouth to make some comment to him, probably still smarting over being called Susie, but was interrupted by a hissing sound as the sauce started to boil over again.

Their mother turned from the sink, turning the flame down even further. "That's enough. Susan, go and get ready. Give Ivan your spoon," she directed.

"Mom," he protested.

"Here you go, Ivan," Susan said, holding the spoon out to her brother.

"Fine," he said with a sigh, surrendering reluctantly. Susan was more than willing to give the spoon to him and allow him to take her spot by the stove.

"Just make sure that it doesn't boil over, brother o'mine," she instructed.


End file.
